


the importance of being (im)patient

by qurt



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alpha!John, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, John tries to make it better, M/M, Mpreg, Omega Verse, Omega!Sherlock, Sherlock suffers and complains a lot, fluff that will rot your teeth, it's too hot, this turned out angst-ier than i thought it would
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-11
Updated: 2013-01-11
Packaged: 2017-11-24 05:51:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/631134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/qurt/pseuds/qurt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>It would just be fate that after a summer of some of the most hideous cold and wet weather, that London would find itself in the midst of a sickly hot Indian summer in Sherlock’s ninth month of pregnancy.</i>
</p><p>Omegaverse fic. Sherlock is late (late late late), and he really doesn't like it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the importance of being (im)patient

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a prompt on the kink meme that I can no longer find. This is my first fic in this fandom and my first fic for about 2 years so I'm a little nervous about posting. Please excuse any OOC, the thing that has put me off trying to write for Sherlock is getting Sherlock to sound _right_ and I may also be a little writing rusty, the only things I've written lately are essays and lab reports. No beta but I've tried my best to pick out anything glaringly obvious. 
> 
> Also I have never been pregnant, so apologies if I'm way off the mark.

  
_7th September 2014 – due date -7._

The first thing Sherlock does when he makes his way into the kitchen is pick up the red marker pen that has taken up residence on the edge of the counter, and draw a thick cross through the date on the calendar; its box now matching the 273 before it.

He smiles to himself and rubs a hand across his rounded belly. Just one week to go

  
  
_10th September 2014 – due date -4._

It would just be fate that after a summer of some of the most hideous cold and wet weather, the sort unlike seen for several years, that London would find itself in the midst of a sickly hot Indian summer in Sherlock’s ninth month of pregnancy. The air is stagnant both inside and outside of the flat, and despite all of the windows blown wide and all of the fans both John and Mrs Hudson could get their hands on blasting away, the heat in 221b is simply stifling and extremely uncomfortable. Even for those not currently sporting swollen ankles and an extra 20lbs of weight.

Sherlock can feel the sweat dripping down the nape of his neck where his head is resting on the arm of the sofa; his forearm thrown dramatically over his eyes as he groans at a hard kick to his ribs. He lets his free hand drift lazily down to his stomach, rubbing small soothing circles in the hope that his child will stop trying to use his ribcage as some kind of personal glockenspiel sometime soon. Half an hour’s worth of arrhythmic kicking is bordering on the most he can take.

Just as he is contemplating surrendering to the unbearable humidity of the flat and drifting off into an unwanted afternoon nap, he hears the front door close softly, followed by John’s unmistakeable footsteps on the staircase, tread heavy with heat and exhaustion. Sherlock lifts his arm from his eyes as he hears the door to the flat open revelling a t-shirt clad John, the faintest hint of dampness growing at his collar. 

“More ice,” John says, holding up a pathetic looking plastic bag, water droplets trickling in rivers down the side. Sherlock raises an eyebrow and John’s eyes roll in response. “Well it was ice about 5 minutes ago at least.”

“I still don’t understand why you are continuing to persist on buying ice from the shop when we have perfectly adequate ice cube trays in the flat,” Sherlock grumbles, stretching his legs to press his toes hard against the other sofa arm, his eyes following John as he turns towards the kitchen. 

“Maybe because somebody last used them to store eyeballs,” John counters as he grabs a pair of scissors and cuts open the ice bag, grabbing a few dripping cubes and depositing them on a tea-towel. “I’d prefer to know that any ice I’m putting in my drink doesn’t contain any remnants of frozen eyeball thank you very much,” he continues, moving back over to Sherlock and handing him the towel wrapped ice. “Here put this on your forehead, you need to cool down.”

Sherlock murmurs under his breath but takes the towel anyway. The cool feels wonderful on his skin and he feels his eyes close of their own accord. The baby squirms again and his hand returns back to his stomach, continuing with the soothing circles. 

“Only you Sherlock could possibly time the end of your pregnancy with a heatwave, I’m almost starting to believe you planned it.”

Sherlock’s eyes flick open to watch as John sits down in his armchair; his fond gaze turning to look at Sherlock sprawled over the sofa. 

Sherlock’s lips twitch into a small smile. “I believe John that you are confusing genius with omnipotence. I’m afraid even despite my superior mind, even I could not have known the weather nine months prior, even if right now it seems like it would have been a useful skill to have. Besides,” he sighs, tipping his head back to stare at the ceiling, “only 4 days left and it will all be over.” 

“Sherlock, how many times have we had this conversation?” John replies, exasperation lacing his voice. “It doesn’t work like that!”

“Nonsense, I have been reliably informed that I was born exactly on the day I was supposed to – ”

“And your brother arrived 2 weeks late,” John interrupts, picking up the newspaper resting on the arm of his chair and unfolding it with a flick of his hands. Sherlock scoffs and rolls his eyes at the mention of his brother.

“Well that is Mycroft all over, being wildly inconvenient even from within the womb. Our child will do no such thing.” 

“I was 3 days early Sherlock,” John replies, letting the newspaper fall back over his fingers to look over at the detective. “Harry was 3 days late. Every pregnancy is different! Only around 5 percent of babies are born on their due date.”

“Well ours will be in that 5 percent! Otherwise what is the point of stating a date in the first place!” Sherlock snaps, tea-towel slipping down from his forehead to the sofa as he turns his head sharply towards John.

John sighs, letting the newspaper drop fully into his lap. “It’s just a rough estimate given so that people can prepare themselves and is calculated on the basis that a baby will be born 40 weeks after an omega’s heat. _It’s not a fixed date!_ Statistically first born babies are generally late so I wouldn’t get your hopes up.”

“My hopes are not ‘up’ as you so eloquently put it. I _know_ that our child will be born on Sunday!” 

John sighs again and Sherlock watches as his eyes flutter shut briefly in defeat. The newspaper rustles in his hands as he unfolds it once again, fingers turning the page.

“Whatever you say Sherlock, whatever you say.”

  
  
_14th September 2014 – due date._

The heat is still as thick and claustrophobic as it had been for 2 weeks prior when Sherlock wakes on the morning of the 14th, sheets sticking unpleasantly to his overheated skin. He presses his face more firmly into the pillow and groans, his bladder making it’s presence known quite insistently.

By the time he’s heaved himself out of bed and slowly waddled his way to the bathroom and back, John has blearily blinked his way out of unconsciousness, his back pressed against the headboard as he rubs at his eye with his palm. He lowers his hand when he hears Sherlock re-enter the room.

“You okay?” he asks, his eyes filled with concern and drifting over Sherlock’s face.

Sherlock moves around to his side of the bed, and with great difficulty and a great amount of care, lowers himself down to the mattress, swinging his legs up onto the bed and sliding them back under the sheets.

“Fine, fine. Well if you count fine as not being able to sleep for more than 25 minutes at a time due to the fact that every single part of your body is screaming in agony, and having to get up every 7 minutes because your bladder feels as if it will explode. If that is the case then I am _absolutely_ 100 percent _fine_.”

John rolls over onto his side and props his head up with one hand, the other sliding over Sherlock’s waist, his hand smoothing gently over the large bump underneath.

“How about you try and get a bit more sleep then while I make breakfast? I’ll even crack the frying pan out and make some eggy bread if you like?”

Sherlock hums sleepily and feels his eyelids flutter shut at John’s soothing hands running over his belly. At some point he registers a dip in the mattress as John moves to leave the bed, a kiss pressed against his temple and a caress around his navel. 

*****

It’s almost midday before the remnants of breakfast are cleared away and the heat in 221b is reaching its peak. Sherlock has not long taken up his daily position of lounging on the sofa, feet on the coffee table and light cotton pyjama bottoms pushed half way up his calves, when Mrs Hudson enters the flat, a bag of shopping in each hand.

“Just thought you might need a few things,” she says as way of explanation. “It’s not much, just the bare essentials.”

“Oh Mrs Hudson you shouldn’t have,” John replies as he makes his way out of the kitchen and into the doorway, dishcloth in one hand and a cluster of soap bubbles clinging to his elbow. He steps forward and takes the bags with a smile. “Tea?”

“Oh yes please dear if you don’t mind,” she answers, moving further into the room and taking a seat in John’s armchair. “Now how are you Sherlock love? Must be awful for you with this heat. Have you felt any signs yet?”

Sherlock curls his feet slightly in a stretch and runs both hands over his t-shirt covered bump, he feels one foot pressed tightly against the skin just below his ribcage beneath the thin cotton. 

“I’m experiencing a slight increase of pain in my lower back and mild nausea, both of which I believe are an early sign of labour.” 

“So you think it might be today then? Oh how exciting! You’re very lucky if your baby comes on it’s due date, I remember when I was having my Charlotte, 2 weeks overdue she was, was ready to scream bloody murder by the time she eventually decided to show her face! But every pregnancy is different dear.”

“That’s exactly what I keep telling him!” John shouts from the kitchen, the sound of cupboard doors opening and closing as he puts away the contents of the shopping bags. The kettle clicking off as it reaches the boil.

“He is right love, you never can tell with these things,” she adds, turning her head to face the kitchen as John moves into the room with 2 mugs of tea in his hands, passing one to Mrs Hudson before sitting down with his own on the sofa beside Sherlock. He slides one hand over Sherlock’s stomach and links their fingers together; he squeezes gently before asking Mrs Hudson if she’d caught Jeremy Kyle earlier. 

*****

Mrs Hudson has not long left to head back to her flat when Sherlock hears a set of decidedly less welcome footsteps on the stairs.

“Leave,” Sherlock drawls not looking up from the forensic journal propped up on the top of his bump, the book occasionally jumping as the baby moves. 

“Come now Sherlock, I would have thought with your impending fatherhood that you would have wanted to put this silly nonsense behind you.”

Sherlock lowers the journal slightly to glare at his brother, still dressed in a crisp black three-piece suit despite the sweltering heat. He smirks slightly as he spots the light dampness around Mycroft’s shirt collar, giving away the fact that his brother is not as unaffected by the heat as he would like people to think.

“Well you thought wrong. Leave now.”

Mycroft chuckles lightly before moving to take a seat in John’s chair. “Still no sign I take it?”

“That I believe is none of your business.” Sherlock answers coolly, turning back to his journal and thumbing to the next page. He hears Mycroft shift to make himself more comfortable in the chair.

“I shall take that lack of confirmation as a ‘no’ shall I? Do be sure to tell Mummy when the big day arrives, she was ever so upset when I had to inform her that she was to be a Grandmother.” 

Sherlock scowls and lowers the journal once again. “I believe that that was not your news to tell.”

Mycroft lazily crosses his legs and folds his hands over his knee, linking his fingers together and twiddling his thumbs. “You had 6 months in which you had ample opportunity if you had wished to inform Mummy yourself Sherlock, and you know how she does very much hate surprises.”

Sherlock grumbles and flicks his eyes back to the journal, trying his hardest to ignore the imposing figure of his brother still intruding in his living room.

“I do so hope that the child arrives soon, if only for your sake,” Mycroft says after a good 10 minutes of passive silence, rising to his feet and straightening out his suit jacket. “I would hate to think that you are suffering in this heat.”

Sherlock raises his eyes and sneers. “It will be your fault if the baby does not arrive today, I would not blame them at all for not wanting to be born around your presence. And do try to calm your application of that fake alpha scent; the stench is making me want to vomit.”

Mycroft smiles thinly and steels his shoulders slightly, the way he does when Sherlock knows he has hit a nerve, especially one that concerns his beta gender. 

“Very well I shall take my leave. Do not do yourself the enormous trouble in standing, I shall see myself out. I know how difficult you are finding it carrying that considerable weight around,” he smirks, dipping his head slightly before exiting the flat.

Sherlock growls and heaves himself forward on the sofa to launch the journal toward the doorway, snarling when the book misses its target and thumps heavily against the doorframe, landing on the floor with a petulant smack. 

*****

John sighs tiredly, rubbing a fist into his eye socket. “It’s 11:30 Sherlock, so unless you’ve been in labour for the past 8 hours and not noticed, which I highly doubt by the way, the baby is not going to be born in the next 30 minutes, so can we _please_ go to bed now?!” 

Sherlock harrumphs and crosses his arms, gently resting them on the curve of his belly. “As you well know I have been experiencing pains.”

“Yes but not labour pains!” John answers, exhaustion creeping into his voice. “You would most definitely know by now if you were experiencing labour pains. Please Sherlock, it is too hot and you are not doing yourself any favours by sitting up all night. When you do _actually_ go into labour you’ll be too tired and that’s when complications happen, so let’s just go to bed and hope you wake me up in a few hours to go to the hospital alright?”

Sherlock stares at John determinedly for a few moments more before slouching and nodding his head wearily. “Fine, have it your way.”

John grins and hauls himself out of the armchair, moving over to the sofa where Sherlock is leaning forward with his arms outstretched ready for John to help him to his feet. He falls into John slightly when he finally manoeuvres himself up, and John wraps an arm around his waist to steady, before leaning forward and placing a gentle, warm kiss to Sherlock’s lips.

  
  
_15th September 2014 – due date +1._

“John this is hideous,” Sherlock says, rocking forwards and backwards on a large silver ball Molly had bought him for that hateful American style ‘baby shower’ Harry had insisted throwing him. He remembers rolling his eyes sarcastically at the time at the gift, but having tried the thing he found it questionably soothing, and more comfortable than sitting in a chair as his pregnancy progressed.

“I know Sherlock,” John calls from the kitchen, the sound of dishes clanking as he washes up the plates from lunch. “You’ve already said as much at least 10 times this morning!”

“But it _is_ hideous! John do something about it!”

“And what do you suggest I do exactly?” John asks, moving into the front room while wiping his hands on a towel.

“Anything! You’re a doctor, you sort it out.”

John rolls his eyes and takes a seat in his chair. “I’m not a midwife though, I haven’t got the faintest clue about omega obstetrics.”

Sherlock sighs and continues to bounce on the ball, hands cupping his bump possessively. “There must be something! Something they taught you in rotation. Think John. Think!”

John shrugs his shoulders and holds his hands up defensively. “I’ve got nothing, sorry. It’s a waiting game at this point Sherlock, which I know is very difficult for you to handle but it’s the truth, your body and the baby’s will know when they’re ready. But you could probably find some old wives tale on Google to experiment with if you looked,” he laughs, moving to stand once again, tossing the towel over his shoulder. 

Sherlock pauses in his bouncing and raises an eyebrow, turning his gaze to John’s laptop with a satisfied smile.

  
  
_16th September 2014 – due date +2._

Sherlock is already on his feet when John enters from his final shift at the surgery before he starts his paternity leave. John’s forehead is damp with perspiration and he is breathing slightly heavier than usual.

“John I want curry,” Sherlock says and John drops his bag to the floor just inside of the doorway. John stares back incredulously, mouth falling open slightly.

“You have _got_ to be joking.”

“Not at all,” Sherlock replies. “I searched online as you suggested and various people have reported that the effects of the spices in curry that irritate the bowel, can induce uterine contractions. I would like some curry to test this hypothesis.”

“Sherlock it’s 25 degrees outside!” John shouts, pointing dramatically towards the open window.

Sherlock narrows his eyes and tilts his head in confusion. “I am quite aware of the temperature John; however I fail to see how this affects my need for curry.”

John shakes his head disbelievingly. “Unbelievable, you are absolutely unbelievable,” he mutters, turning back to head through the door and loudly thumping down the stairs. Sherlock hears the front door slam as John leaves the building.

*****

“Here’s your damn curry, the hottest one they had,” John mutters dropping said bag of curry into Sherlock’s lap 40 minutes after leaving the flat, before moving straight into the kitchen and switching on the kettle.

Sherlock smiles and opens the bag with one hand, holding the other out expectantly. He hears John sigh before he feels cool metal drop into his palm.

“’Thanks for the spoon John!’ ‘Oh that’s okay Sherlock, no problem!’” John mumbles, heading back to the kitchen as the kettle finally boils. Sherlock pulls out the curry container, lifting the lid and digging the spoon in, shovelling the whole spoon straight into his mouth.

He pauses as the curry touches his tongue, eyes widening dramatically as the spices start to burn in his throat. He barely manages to choke down the rest of the mouthful, eyes beginning to water angrily.

“John!” he croaks. “John for God’s sake bring the milk!”

*****

John leans casually against the bathroom door an hour and a half later, a semi smug smile on his face contrasting against the spark of worry in his eyes. “So curry, not the best idea?”

Sherlock coughs before scrambling to lean back over the toilet as he retches again. Dropping back onto his heels and resting his forehead against the rim. “Oh piss off John,” he replies brokenly, moaning weakly as another wave of nausea comes over him. “Oh God!”

He hears John sigh behind him as he leans over once again, a large hand soothing over his back as John kneels down beside him.

“Come on, you’ll feel better when it’s all up. Just don’t make me buy you anymore ‘remedies’ any time soon.”

  
  
_17th September 2014 – due date +3._

Wednesday finds Sherlock in the kitchen rummaging through the cupboard above the sink, trying to navigate his way through the many mugs and cups on the shelves whilst making sure he doesn’t accidentally knock the British Isle motif tea set (saved for important events only, such as meetings with slick haired consulting criminals) to the floor with his elbows.

This exact scene is the one that greets John as he enters from the bedroom, towel slung low over his hips and hair still dripping over his shoulders.

“Ah John! There you are!” Sherlock exclaims, turning his head slightly to look back over his shoulder. “Where is the raspberry leaf tea?”

John’s nose scrunches at the question and his eyes narrow slightly. “Raspberry leaf tea? We don’t have any. Despite what you may think Sherlock I’m not some sort of tea connoisseur, all we have is plain old PG tips.”

“Then what is this box of camomile for then?” Sherlock asks, holding out said box of camomile tea as he turns to face John, eyebrow raised.

“That is for when you’re ill with the flu and are refusing to sleep.”

Sherlock lowers the box and stares at John pointedly. “Well it is vitally important that I have raspberry leaf tea, you’ll have to get me some.”

“And just _why_ is raspberry leaf tea so important?” John sighs, dropping his head slightly as he runs a hand over his face. Sherlock’s lips pout ever so slightly and his eyebrows furrow.

“If our baby is to be born today than it is imperative that I drink raspberry leaf tea. There are many accounts by various omegas online about the effectiveness and how within just a few hours labour has been induced. If I do not drink this tea then this pregnancy could last for _weeks_ , which would be detrimental to both mine and our happiness.”

“Sherlock you will not be pregnant for weeks,” John sighs exasperatedly. “I thought you would have learnt from the curry yesterday, these things are just _wives tales!_ Our baby will be born when it is good and ready and not a moment before.” 

“Then it won’t make one bit of difference if I drink the tea or not will it?” Sherlock replies, his eyes wide and innocent looking, bottom lip jutting out slightly.

John huffs and his shoulders droop. “Fine, _fine_! I’ll get the damn tea!” he mutters, turning on his heel and walking back to the bedroom, his towel slipping further down over his hips as he goes.

Sherlock smirks and tosses the box of camomile between his hands, humming to himself happily as he shoulders the cupboard door behind him closed.

*****

6 hours, 10 cups of raspberry leaf tea, 1 strop of epic proportions and 2 cheese toasties later; Sherlock sits sprawled in his armchair across from John with a thunderous scowl on his face; his hands steepled and resting on top of his large baby bump, foot tapping incessantly on the floor. 

“Why isn’t it _working_!?” He shouts abruptly, fisting his hands in his hair and tugging hard. John lowers the novel he had been reading and stares at Sherlock with a raised eyebrow.

“What did I say? Look Sherlock there is no real scientific proof that these kind of things work, as a man so obsessed with facts and logic, I can’t understand why you’re putting so much faith in them.”

“Desperate times call for desperate measures _Doctor_ ,” Sherlock snarls, his hands dropping to the arms of the chair with a loud thump. “If you would just help me with this then I would not have to result to such ridiculous methods!”

John growls slightly and leans forward in his chair. “And for the final time I. Am. Not. A. _Midwife_! There is nothing I can do Sherlock! The only thing I can prescribe is _time_ , which you are not willing to accept as the only answer!”

“Because it is not the only answer!” He roars, curling his hands into fists and thumping them once again on the chair arms. “What is the point of your medical degree if you cannot help me?! Is this not against the Hippocratic Oath?!”

“For fucks sake Sherlock you are not _dying_ , you are not _ill_ , you are _pregnant_! And yes I know you are uncomfortable, and yes I know it is disgustingly hot right now, but there is _nothing_ that I can _do_!”

Sherlock huffs and throws himself back into the chair dramatically, his eyes narrowing fiercely. John sighs, shaking his head disbelievingly and returns back to his book.

They continue to sit in frosty silence for the best part of an hour, Sherlock glaring at John hotly, before the dull ache that had taken up residence in Sherlock’s spine some 5 days before begins to spread throughout his hips and to his belly. He shifts uncomfortably in the seat and winces slightly as a cramping pain ripples up from his stomach.

“John.”

John pointedly ignores the call of his name and his eyes continue to scan over the page of his book. Sherlock huffs and shifts slightly to one side, trying to relieve the ache in his pelvis.

“ _John._ ”

“Unless this is an apology I’m not interested Sherlock,” John answers flatly, still refusing to look away from the page.

“No. _John_!”

“For God’s sake what – oh!” John stops himself as he finally looks up, his eyes widening as he catches sight of Sherlock who is slightly sweatier than he was a while ago, and holding himself uncomfortably in the chair; one hand curled protectively over his stomach and a flash of worry in his eyes. “Really?”

“ _Yes_!” Sherlock hisses out, hand tightening over his bump as he feels the pain sweep over him once again.

John breathes in deeply and exhales slowly allowing his shoulders to slump and his fingers to loosen their grip on his book. He nods once and composes himself.

“Well, I guess I better get the bag then.”

*****

“This is _hateful_!” Sherlock snarls as he does his hardest to make his unsteady waddling look like his best stomp as he climbs the steps to 221b. “This is _tedious_!”

John sighs exhaustedly, adjusting the bag slung over his shoulder as he follows Sherlock up the stairs. “Sherlock you heard what the nurses said.”

Sherlock turns to face John at the stop of the stairs, doing his best to loom over with his fists curled at his sides, and scoffs.

“The nurses, the _nurses_! I do not _care_ what the _nurses_ said! Their incompetence and predilection for extra marital affairs says enough!”

John climbs up the remaining stairs and gently steers Sherlock towards the flat. Sherlock sneers but obliges, shrugging John’s hand from his shoulder and storming clumsily into the flat. 

“Well maybe you should listen to someone who isn’t your self inflated ego once in a while!” John snaps, dropping the bag down onto the floor just inside to doorway, his eyes drifting up to where Sherlock is busy pacing a hole into the carpet, hand rubbing rhythmically over his large stomach. “You are not in labour Sherlock, and they will not get involved in inducing it in any way until Sunday, so you will just have to accept the fact and deal with it!”

Sherlock growls, glaring at John fiercely. 

“Idiots the lot of you! _Pathetic_ , moronic _imbeciles_!” He snarls, moving towards the bedroom angrily; the simmering silence in the flat broken only by the violent slamming of the bedroom door.

  
  
_18th September 2014 – due date +4._

Sherlock is woken on the 284th day of his pregnancy to fingers carding softly through his hair. He groans and presses up slightly into John’s palm, sighing as a thumb rubs into the spot behind his ear.

“I’m sorry,” John says gently, continuing to massage behind Sherlock’s ear. Sherlock allows his eyes to flutter open and shoots John a puzzled look.

“What for?”

John smiles and curls his fingers slowly, lightly brushing the skin at the top of Sherlock’s nape.

“For losing my temper? For not being as supportive I could be? I know that it’s been hard for you these past few days, in ways that I can’t possibly imagine and will never know myself. But we should be enjoying ourselves right now, this should be the happiest time of our lives and it might change any minute now. We should be enjoying this time where it’s just the two of us, before it becomes the three of us, because God know when we’ll get time to ourselves once the baby’s born.”

Sherlock shifts closer and cups his hands around John’s face, kissing him tenderly. “I’m sorry also.”

John grins and slips and hand down to Sherlock’s neck. “I was thinking about a walk, around Regent’s Park if you like? It’s cooler today than it has been and well, a good walk has been known to get labour started,” he says, delicately caressing Sherlock’s neck. 

Sherlock hums contentedly and nods in agreement, John’s thumb smoothing down towards his collarbone. “Okay.”

*****

There is a gentle breeze making its way down Baker Street as Sherlock and John head towards Regent’s Park, hands clasped together loosely and soft smiles on their faces, John clutching a picnic blanket in his free hand. Golden leaves litter the pavement as they walk ever closer to the entrance of the park and Sherlock childishly begins to kick at them purely to hear John’s equally childish giggle.

They walk slowly, partly due to Sherlock still aching back and partly due to the heat which even though has dropped a few degrees from the previous days, is still a warm presence on their skin. 

As they move ever closer to the lake they begin to spot other couples and families relaxing on the grass seemingly having a similar idea. Sherlock spots several omegas staring at him enviously, while the others look at him with fond looks on their faces before turning back to their own broods.

John halts them when he finds the perfect spot near to the boating lake, and bends down to spread the picnic blanket down over the grass. Kneeling down himself before helping Sherlock down to sit in front of him. John slides fully down to the floor and spreads his legs, patting the blanket and encouraging Sherlock to sit in between his legs, back to John’s chest.

“Lovely day isn’t it,” John says, wrapping his arms around Sherlock’s waist and slipping his hands under Sherlock’s shirt to rub circles into his bump. Sherlock nuzzles back and places his own hands over John’s.

“I suppose it is.”

“You okay?” John asks softly, placing a kiss to the side of Sherlock’s neck. “No pains or anything?”

“Nothing more than the usual,” Sherlock sighs. “Although I’m pretty content right now, I’m not sure I’d appreciate having to get up to go to the hospital just yet.”

John chuckles into Sherlock’s throat and presses firmly over the spot the baby had just kicked, poking back trying to get another response. “It would just be like you to go into labour now after days of trying to start it, but then again you can’t argue with nature.”

Sherlock hums thoughtfully and smirks. “Nature, nature’s boring.”

“You think that anything that isn’t a locked room murder is boring!”

Sherlock laughs brightly, before sighing and relaxing further into John’s embrace. “That’s not true. I don’t find you boring. I don’t find our baby boring.”

John kisses Sherlock’s throat again and thumbs a circle around Sherlock’s navel. “No you don’t do you?” he replies thoughtfully. “I have to say I was surprised, I wasn’t sure you’d take to the idea of having a baby so easily. I was sure I’d have to continuously wrestle harmful chemicals off you.”

“I’d never hurt our baby John,” Sherlock answers, a small amount of hurt lacing his voice. “I love our baby. It’s strange really when you consider it, loving somebody you’ve never even met, but knowing you’ll love them unconditionally. What weird things biology can make you do,” he muses, sliding one hand under his shirt to join John’s in rubbing circles into his skin. 

John nods slightly, his nose brushing against Sherlock’s nape. “And to think you said you were a sociopath.”

Sherlock leans his head back against John’s shoulder and tilts sideways; pressing a kiss to the corner of John’s mouth. “Indeed.”

*****

When Sherlock climbs into bed that night, John automatically curls up around his back, burying his face in the nape of Sherlock’s neck and exhaling contentedly. Sherlock snuggles backwards and wraps his fingers around John’s wrist, hand curved protectively over his waist.

He sleeps easily that night.

  
  
_19th September 2014 – due date +5._

They are still seated at the table eating breakfast when Sherlock brings the topic up.

“John, I think we should have sex.”

John pauses with his slice of toast halfway to his mouth, his lips pursed mid chew. He nods once and chews thoughtfully, swallowing and placing his unfinished slice of toast back on his plate before addressing Sherlock.

“Okay. But later, I’m too hot to even think about sex right now.”

Sherlock nods in agreement and sips at his tea, both hands curled around the mug.

*****

It’s much later by the time they manage to find themselves in bed, what with an impromptu visit from Lestrade about a seemingly ‘impossible case’ that Sherlock solved within half an hour. To Sherlock’s dismay John had offered tea and spent the best part of 2 hours talking to ‘Greg’ about the last Arsenal match. It was only after an hour’s worth of impatient huffing from Sherlock that John had escorted Lestrade back down the stairs and out of the door; Sherlock proceeding to drag John straight into the bedroom the moment he reappeared back in the flat.

Sherlock moans happily as John bites a trail from the base of his neck and over his collarbones, making sure to pay extra attention to Sherlock’s bond bite in the hollow of his throat. 

“John,” Sherlock says breathily as John licks at his skin, goosebumps breaking out all over his body.

“I want to give you a massage,” John answers softly, dropping his hands to Sherlock’s waist and encouraging him to roll over onto his left side. “You’re so tense,” he says, brushing his fingers over Sherlock’s shoulders before squeezing hard, thumbs digging deep into tangled knots. “No wonder the baby wants to stay put with you being so stressed.”

“The baby,” Sherlock grunts as John focuses on a particularly stubborn knot. “Is what is _making_ me so stressed.”

“They don’t know that though; stress can make the body do some weird things.”

Sherlock sighs and arches backwards into John’s fingers as they sweep down to focus on his lower back. “Oh. Oh! That’s, that’s – good.”

John giggles, slowing down his hands until they are just caressing Sherlock’s skin. 

“So, are we doing this just for fun or because you want the prostaglandins in my sperm?” 

Sherlock hesitates for a moment before taking a breath. “Bit of both,” he exhales. “I also heard nipple stimulation is a good idea.”

John laughs and kisses the back of Sherlock’s neck. “Okay, okay.”

The touches they exchange start off tentative and soft, lingering sweetly in the dips and curves of each other bodies, strong hands brushing over smooth plains, before moving on to something more passionate and intense when John’s attention moves to focus on Sherlock’s nipples.

“Jesus! Fuck!” Sherlock curses as his spine curves as best as it can into John’s touch, trying to push his chest further into John’s palms.

“You’re so sensitive now,” John says happily, rubbing his thumb over the areola, deliberately skimming over the nipple itself. “Makes a nice change.”

Sherlock moans and turns his face toward the pillow, hair fanning out wildly. “John please!”

John giggles and licks teasingly over the same path his thumb had previously taken, before placing his fingers exactly where Sherlock wants them. His eyes light up in awe as Sherlock writhes violently with pleasure underneath him.

“Jesus!”

“It’s Sherlock actually,” Sherlock pants, lifting his gaze up to focus hazily on John, his pupils blown wide. He can still feel small ripples of heat run though his body when John’s palm slides over his chest as he breathes heavily.

“God if I don’t fuck you soon,” John whispers, drifting his hands down to Sherlock’s hips, thumbing gently over the curves of the bones.

Sherlock licks at his dry lips and rolls under John’s hands back onto his side, curling up with his legs as close to his chest as physically possible. He hears John’s breathing hitch before the mattress dips and he feels John slide up behind him.

“So beautiful,” John murmurs against the side of Sherlock’s throat as his hand skims down to Sherlock’s arse and starts to finger him slowly, doing his best to locate Sherlock’s prostate just to feel him jolt in surprise next to him. “Gorgeous.”

“Please John!” Sherlock gasps, pressing back against John’s hand and chest. “Please!”

John hushes him and leans over to reach the bedside table and grab the bottle of lube placed there in preparation. Sherlock takes the time to John uses to squeeze the little needed into his palm, to take a few deep breaths to calm himself so he doesn’t come too soon.

“So wet without it,” John says as he presses up behind Sherlock, lining up his cock. “But I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t,” Sherlock answers, his voice catching as John begins to thrust shallowly inside. Sherlock grasps desperately at the sheets and John curls his arm over Sherlock’s thick waist, propping himself slightly up on his other arm to watch Sherlock’s face.

“Good?”

Sherlock answers unintelligently, just pushes back to meet John’s hips. It hasn’t been this good for a while, and he’s not sure he’s ever been this _sensitive_ , every brush of John’s skin just makes him want to curl up tighter, everywhere they touch feeling like little shocks to his skin.

“Beautiful,” John pants again, rubbing his hand over Sherlock’s stomach. Speeding up and deepening his thrusts as he feels himself grow closer. “So, so beautiful.”

“I love you!” Sherlock gasps, unclenching his hands from the sheet and scrabbling behind himself to clutch at John’s hip. “I love you, I love you!”

“Yes!” John half sobs, slipping his hand down to stroke over Sherlock’s cock, paying special attention to the tip and twisting his wrist in the way he knows will surely drive Sherlock crazy.

Sherlock rocks back against him and his whole body stiffens, toes curling against John’s calf as he comes all over the bed sheets. John strokes him through, murmuring soft words into his ear and picking up his own increasingly disjointed thrusts until he finishes himself, pressing himself hard against Sherlock back with a muffled groan. 

They lie there is a sweaty embrace until John rolls onto his back and exhales shakily. “Bloody hell,” he half giggles, closing his eyes tiredly.

Sherlock turns sleepily onto his right side to face John, his hair a tangled curly mess on his head. “I have to agree.”

John laughs fully at that and lets his eyes flicker open. He rolls over and kisses Sherlock slowly for a while, winding his fingers into Sherlock’s already wrecked hair.

“I’ll go get something to clean up with alright,” John says after a while, pulling back and placing a final kiss to Sherlock’s lips.

Sherlock nods and feels his eyes closing slowly as the mattress dips and John heads to the bathroom, drifting off into a contented doze.

*****

It isn’t an odd thing when Sherlock wakes up with a jolt at 3:40 in the morning, it’s become a nightly occurrence pretty much at this stage, and so it isn’t until 15 minutes later, just as he’s verging on falling back into the land of nod, when an uncomfortable throb radiates from his lower back that he realises why exactly he started awake.

He lies there for a little while, waiting to see if the pains pass, keeping his eyes firmly fixed on the clock and feeling his pulse start to rise when he notices the time between the throbs begin to fall.

At this realisation he slowly manoeuvres himself into a sitting position, realising this is a terrible idea when the next pain not only throbs in his back but radiates sharply all over his hips, stomach and even his thighs. He gasps in surprise and does his best to breathe through it, his hand automatically moving to soothe, feeling his stomach unnaturally tight under his fingers.

He is only just recovering from the shock and intensity of the last pain when the next one hits, causing him to whimper unflatteringly and curl the hand not currently still pressed over his belly, into the sheets. He ironically thinks to himself that it was only 7 hours ago when he’d done so for an entirely different, and much more pleasurable, reason.

“John,” he moans weakly, his eyes closing tightly as the pain continues to build. “ _John_!”

John snorts slightly into wakefulness, head bolting upright as one eye squints open. “Sh’lock?”

“John please!” Sherlock replies thinly, internally cursing himself for acting so pitifully when his hand flies out to grasp clumsily at John. “Hold my hand please!”

John seems to start into himself at that, and scrambles to sit up properly, his hair flattened on one side. “Sherlock?” he says worriedly, taking Sherlock’s outstretched hand. He doesn’t even wince when Sherlock crushes his fingers hard in his own.

Sherlock groans and curls his legs up slightly towards his stomach. “It hurts John, oh _God_ it hurts!”

“Hey, hey,” John says soothingly, climbing behind Sherlock and folding him up against his chest, allowing Sherlock to dig his fingernails into his forearm. “It’s alright okay, it’s alright. This is good y’know, this is brilliant.”

Sherlock lets his breath out in a huff, pressing his face into John’s throat when the contraction passes, inhaling the warm, protective alpha scent of musk and ginger radiating off of him in waves. “This is horrible,” he mutters, nuzzling his forehead under John’s jaw and pressing a hand against John’s chest.

John laughs lightly and rubs his hands over Sherlock’s forearms, pressing a kiss into his sweat damp hair. “It’s natural.”

“I hate nature, nature’s boring,” Sherlock mumbles, before curling up into himself again. John soothing him with hushed whispers and soft hands.

“Come on, we need to get you to hospital,” John says, stroking over Sherlock’s ribs as Sherlock finally uncurls himself. Sherlock nods wearily in agreement and allows John to move off of the bed to sort them out some clothes from the wardrobe, and collect the hospital bag from beside the crib placed next to Sherlock’s side of the bed.

“It’s funny you know,” John muses as he helps Sherlock step into a pair of loose pyjama bottoms, stroking his ankles as Sherlock’s hands wrap over his shoulders. “It appears that the best way to get a baby out, is the same way you put one in. Who would have thought?”

  
  
_21st September 2014 – due date +7._

Violet Azalea Holmes-Watson is born on Sunday 21st September 2014 at 4:43am, weighing 8lbs 6oz and measuring 51cm long.

After 287 days of pregnancy and almost 24 hours of labour, Sherlock is undoubtedly relieved that Violet has finally found her way into the world, screaming her lungs out and all; but what he really feels more than anything at that moment is a desperate need for a shower. And also the need to hold his little girl finally in his arms and never let her go.

He gets his first wish not 20 minutes later when a nurse shepherds him towards the adjoining bathroom and allows John to help him wash off 2 days worth of sweat and various other fluids while the midwives, to Sherlock’s disdain, check her over.

The second follows a little while after, once the nurses have changed the sheets and John has helped him back to bed dressed in a fresh set of pyjamas. One of the midwives (5”2, beta, recently single and courting both an alpha _and_ an omega) brings Violet to him dressed in one of the baby grows John had packed ready, and wrapped in a soft yellow blanket. 

She feels tiny in his arms, soft and breakable, and he stares at her with unrestrained awe, taking in her thick dark hair with slight waves at the tips (that will undoubtedly form ringlets as it grows), to her little snub nose (John’s) and absurdly small fingernails. He can’t help but let the feeling that she is _perfect_ well up inside of him.

“She’s beautiful isn’t she?” John whispers from beside him, taking her tiny little fist in his hand and allowing her fingers to curl over his own, grasping tight.

“Stunning,” Sherlock adds, gently touching his fingers to her dark hair, amazed at how much it reminds him of his own. John hums softly in agreement.

“I love you,” he says, leaning forward and pressing a deep kiss to Sherlock’s lips. “You are, _incredible_.” 

Sherlock sighs into the kiss and curls one hand under John’s jaw trying to pull him closer. The stubble on John’s chin scratching against his fingertips. 

“I love you too.”

*****

Several hours later, after an exhausted sleep and an unwanted check up from a midwife; Sherlock finds himself propped up against the pillows with a bottle in one hand as he gives Violet a feed, instinctively rocking her slightly as he watches John fold baby clothes happily, a bright smile on his face.

The contentedly silence in the room is interrupted too soon by a gentle knock on the door. John halts midway through folding a tiny jumper and moves to answer the door, grinning even wider when he sees Mrs Hudson in the doorway.

“Just thought I’d pop by and see the little one dears,” she says as John steps aside to let her enter. Her hand drifts up to her mouth when she catches sight of Violet cradled in Sherlock’s arms. “Oh she’s beautiful Sherlock! And look at her hair! She’s definitely got your hair!”

Sherlock hums, the smile spreading over his face without his permission. “And John’s eyes, she has John’s eyes.”

“Oh I’m just so _happy_ for you boys!” Mrs Hudson adds wetly, sinking down into the chair beside Sherlock’s bed. “I got her a present, just a little thing,” she adds handing a pink decorated gift bag to John. 

John smiles as he accepts the bag and reaches inside, pulling out a medium sized lilac bear.

“I just thought that every baby needs their first teddy bear,” she says leaning forward to gently stroke her thumb up the sole of Violet’s foot.

“Entirely right Mrs Hudson,” John says moving over to the plastic hospital cot and placing the bear inside. He then moves to sit round on the side of Sherlock’s bed, allowing his arm to curve possessively around Sherlock’s waist as he finishes feeding Violet.

*****

Sunday 21st September 2014 in a long day Sherlock decides as he lies back against the pillows of the hospital bed, eyes fighting sleep as he waits for John to finish changing Violet. He has never had to deal with so many visitors when feeling this decidedly unsociable, a feat that even he has to appreciate is particularly difficult to outdo as his general attitude to visitor is ‘decidedly unsociable’. 

“There we go sweetheart,” John coos, picking up Violet from the changing mat and carrying her back over to the bed, sliding up beside Sherlock and snuggling against him. Violet held safely between the both of them.

“I spoke to Doctor Weiss; she says we can take Violet home tomorrow.”

“Good,” Sherlock sighs, pressing his face against John’s throat. “I have never wanted to sleep in my own bed as much as I do now.”

“Well that is something,” John murmurs. “I’ve never known you to want to sleep in any bed before.”

Sherlock laughs tiredly, his eyes still closed and fighting sleep. “Desperate times John,” he slurs. “Desperate times.”

John exhales a giggle softly and presses a kiss into Sherlock’s hair. “Sleep then Sherlock, you’ve earned it.”

And Sherlock does.

  
  
**Epilogue.**

_3rd October 2014 – birth date +12._  


There is a marked change in the residents of 221b when Violet is taken home, for a start they spend a lot more time in pyjamas despite the ever growing dark circles under both of their eyes. Sleep is something that becomes difficult to come by and the first thing Sherlock learns is never to take sleep for granted _ever again_! Sleep has never seemed so underrated when one hasn’t even managed a substantial nap for almost 2 weeks.

Babies are also very messy and the second lesson Sherlock learns is that under no circumstance should you _ever_ wear a £100 Dolce and Gabbana shirt around a baby, even if you are just wanting to celebrate the fact that you can button it up fully for the first time in 4 months. 

And the final lesson that Sherlock learns is how to be truly happy. Because that’s what he is, without even really trying. He only has to glance over at his daughter and his John curled up dozing lightly on the sofa to know that it is a lesson that has been ingrained in his skin permanently, brightening all of the places he thought had been lost to brooding darkness, and bringing unexpected smiles to his face.

It’s one of those unexpected smiles that tug at his mouth as he moves towards the sofa and gently slides himself on alongside John, curving up against his side and placing his hand protectively over Violet’s back. He sighs; breathing in John’s warm alpha scent and Violet’s milky, baby smell and presses his nose against John’s throat. His steady pulse bringing sleep over him like a soft lullaby.


End file.
